The Hidden Man Behind The Glass
by Onemoremiracleforme
Summary: Sherlock version of the film Penelope. Sherlock was born in a curse where he has a snout for a nose. The curse needs to be lifted when a man can understand. Will John be the one to break the curse? Sorry, terrible at summaries. Very AU. T just to be safe. Johnlock, pure Johnlock.
1. Prologue

**A/N - I do not own any of the characters, although I wish I did. They are Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's characters.**

**Chapter 1**

He knew he was special.

He came from a long line of powerful and arrogant ancestors but Sherlock Holmes was the first one to be special. It started when David Holmes fell in love with a maid, and agreed to secretly marry her one day so they could run away with each other. Of course the higher class citizens never went lower than higher class. He was forced to take away his pledge and propose to a duchess instead, whom he did not love. It would be unspeakable and full of disgrace to abandon his parents' word, and so his life went on.

The girl, with a broken heart, could no longer watch them live and eventually killed herself. The mother of the poor girl was quite rightly angered. Struck with grief she made a curse upon their family stating that one of their kinds would finally see what it was like to feel abandoned and looked down upon.

She said in an eerie voice that would strike fear into any heart;

_"This, a curse upon a little child._

_This, the curse from your hand_

_After finding two of likely mind_

_Shall monster turn into man"_

Of course, many believed the curse to be legend and no more than a myth, but mothers feared to give birth to a monster. They lived in constant terror that they would be subjected to that torment of that child. It made many consider the marriage into the family.

There were babies that were humans and mothers who couldn't help but breathe out the sigh of relief when they saw their sons and daughters in their arms. This made the curse almost fade away. No one talked about it, but muttered it in soft and secret whispers.

It took, 98 years later, for the monster to live.

Thomas and Olivia Holmes had given birth to a son, Mycroft. Seeing that he was no monster, both parents considered having another child, but something felt wrong in this pregnancy.

Olivia went into serious pains that no one could fathom, and they began to worry about losing the baby after all. Tests after tests, the results were that both mother and child were never better. It seemed as if it was just a bad pregnancy.

At night, Thomas and Olivia would talk, about the curse and would discuss if this was something to be prepared for. Thomas had insisted that they will love the child no matter what, as it was their offspring. Olivia tried to believe that it wasn't the curse. After all, some women have a lot of pain when with child. She prayed it wasn't the curse.

Her prayers were not answered, and in the day of her delivery, everyone saw the curse and what affect it had on the baby.

It was a boy. He had colourful eyes, too much colour in fact that it was hard to decipher what the main one was. They seemed to sparkle with innocence like all babies have. He had a fair complexion like his mother and the strong chin of his father. What he inherited the most, was the nose of the curse; a snout.

It looked so foreign upon his face and so out of place that his mother couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to witness the curse's input on her child. She asked doctors if it were possible to get rid of the snout, but there would be complications of the fatal kind – An artery stuck through the snout. It would kill the boy.

Thomas and Mycroft, who was now 6, welcomed the new addition to the family. At first seeing the baby was a shock, as an understatement, but it wasn't until Thomas had seen Mycroft hold the boy without any disgust upon his face that he saw past the curse. They named him Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes had a nice ring to it, and belonged in legends.

One of the doctors had let slip that there was a pig-nosed boy born into the Holmes' family. No one was more interested than two journalists called Anderson and Kitty Riley. They had heard of the curse, as so many had, but initially believed it folklore. They searched high and low for the boy, wanting to grab any evidence of this phenomenon.

After finding the house, 1 year later, they stopped at nothing to get a picture; hiding in cupboards, lurking in the bushes and once getting into his cot at night.

Olivia had spotted Kitty on that night, and forced her out of the house, shouting at the top of her lungs. "Sherlock is not something to be observed. Stay away from this house!" Kitty Riley was fired after her work had heard this, but Anderson never gave up.

Olivia and Thomas made the decision to move house and live just outside of London, away from their routine city life. Home-schooling the children himself, Thomas taught Mycroft, and years later Sherlock; Science, Maths, English, French, German and how to read people using deduction. Sherlock and Mycroft were very intelligent boys and picked everything up fairly well. Sherlock only started to learn these topics when he was 6, but he was most interested in the science of deduction from an early age.

Mycroft hadn't picked it up well and preferred to read into politics and other such things, but Sherlock was different.

He begged his father to teach him when he was seven, and after relentless prodding, his father agreed. At first, Thomas thought that Sherlock would soon get over the idea of reading people, but he hadn't realised that Sherlock would be amazing at it. He had natural observation. Olivia on the other hand found the idea preposterous, and told Sherlock to learn another skill.

It wasn't until Sherlock chanced upon an advertisement on the television, showing a violinist playing in utmost passion, that he decided what other skill to learn to make his mother happy.

After they accepted, the parents went to buy a violin while Sherlock stayed inside, looking out to the closed off world. Sherlock had tried to escape a few times, without success. The house they lived in now was a three story building, the top floor being Sherlock's own room, and a garden. The most obvious fact was the tall, black gates that encircled his prison.

Sherlock knew he was special, but not the special everyone else was.

After gaining his violin, he practised that and deduction non-stop, playing during the day after his mother had told him not to play any other times, and at night would read the history of deducing from his mind when his brain wouldn't stop thinking. It was an isolated life, but better that than being a freak out in that world.

Mycroft and he were very close. Mycroft would play with him when he wanted to, mostly games of pirates and dangerous seas and treasures of gold. Mycroft saw that Sherlock had the imagination to create the games, and him a mere spectator of his brilliance. Had the curse chose anyone else, Sherlock would be awed.

It wasn't until Sherlock had turned eighteen, and Mycroft was rarely at home, did his mother persuade their father to get a partner for Sherlock. They first went for duchesses and dames, but Sherlock had told them that that wasn't his area. What he meant was he didn't want to be tied down to someone and live a pointless life, be trapped in an endless pit of boredom for the rest of the life he would live. His parents took it to find suitors instead. They believed it would take a blue blood to turn Sherlock into a proper man once they had married.

Every time he would show his face, the men would run, frightened by the horrific sight that was him. They were always caught by Dimmock, their helper, and were told to sign an agreement to keep it a secret. Sherlock hated himself, and hated his mother for forcing those feelings of abhorrence upon himself. His mother had not noticed this, and kept the searching for a husband for her son.

She even employed a matchmaker to help her. Mrs. Hudson was an elderly woman with kind brown eyes and a warm smile around her lips. Sherlock loved her immediately, so much in fact that as well as a match maker she had turned into a mother-like figure. More so than the mother he did have.

He was now 21, soon to be 22, and yet he had never lived.

He knew he was special, but not that kind of special.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sitting at a poker bar; Jack Stamford, better known as Mike but he preferred Jack, Sally Donavon and John Watson placed their bets. John knew his luck was down but his hands had placed the coins in the middle of the table before his brain could even think.

Sally folded, and leaned back on her brown chair to watch what was about to unfold once Jack had put forth his coins. They kept placing new bets over previous, and John couldn't control himself.

"Read it and weep!" Jack shouted, standing up with his outburst. John looked down at his hand and sighed deeply. He had to get out of here and quickly before he lost all his money. He took a shaky step up and walked out of the building once the game had finished. When he was outside the stars had littered the sky, and he knew he had spent little time in there compared to other times. On occasions he had spent all day and all night, betting away money that he was not sure he actually had. Luckily, no real debt crept up on him, but this just encouraged his behaviour.

Walking, or more limping, back to his flat, he noticed the normal world around him which was different to the one he had known. Explosions and screams whispered through his thoughts, and he had to stop just to breathe them out of him. He always remembered, and could never forget.

When getting inside his flat, he walked over to his bed and sat down heavily on it. His flat was a small army one, which suited him quite fine because he hadn't many possessions and it was easier to clean. He had neither photos nor personality on the walls, it was easier to forget the past that way.

Nothing resembled him, as he looked around his 'home.' How did his life get to this moment? What had he done wrong to deserve this karma?

His phone rang soundly, a loud contrast to the whispering wind that had entered through his window. He looked at it, as if it offended him, and pressed the green button.

"Hello." One word, so simple and yet he knew that the simple matters were going to become more and more of a complex situation, possibly involving his sister.

"Hello, this is Doctor Watson?" A voice asked over the phone. The sound of authority told John that she was a doctor.

"It's Mr Watson, what's happened to her?"

If the doctor was surprised at his question, she obviously didn't show it. "I am afraid to say that Miss Watson has collapsed down the stairs, during a period of being under the influence of alcohol. Her arm has been dislocated, her leg broken and she has major concussion. We were hoping you would be able to come in and talk to her?" Although the last sentence was a question, it felt more like a command. John could never refuse a command. He began to push himself up, trying to find his cane to stand properly, while holding the phone in his other hand.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." He promised, and walked out of his flat.

Holding his hand up for a taxi in a surprisingly clear night in London proved harder than he had initially thought. After a few minutes of waving his arms frantically in the air, no doubt looking absolutely ridiculous, he finally managed to get a taxi. After telling the cab driver the address to the hospital, he relaxed slightly in the back seat. He knew which hospital it would be because whenever Harry became ill she would end up there almost every time. The hospital came rolling into view after a short trip and John got ready to get out.

After paying the cabbie and limping through the doors of the hospital he asked where his sister was and was led to the room on the second floor.

John hung his head, exhaled slowly and heavily. He was debating to go in or not, but after all this time to get here and that fact that she was his sister was swinging the vote to the left – going in to see her.

When walking through the door he saw his sister sitting astride on the bed, swinging one leg while the other was encased in plaster. The opposite arm was also wrapped in a sling adjacent to her chest. She was scowling at the ground, almost as if blaming it for what had happened to her instead of her own addiction.

Her dyed brown hair was shining with grease and was infested in things more commonly found on the ground. She didn't look like the sister he had once known; only an echo of her personality existed. Alcohol had changed everything about her.

"Harry." John sighed, already dreading what was about to come.

"I am so sorry, John. I promise I will, _I will_, stop." Harry pleaded, facing John as much as she could on the bed before John moved to face her.

"You need help, Harry. I'll help you." This was the most he had said in a sentence to Harry after returning from the war. He always offered to help, which was turned down numerous of times; he was just getting tired of repeating himself.

"No, I don't need help. I'm fi-"

"Don't you dare tell me you're fine! Look at you Harry! Look what your addiction has led you to. You have to stop Harry; you can't carry on like this! Do you see what you're doing to you, to your bloody life, to me? One of these days, Harry, I'm going to get a call saying I've lost you completely. I dread that day, but it's becoming more of a possibility every time you pick up a drink. Don't do that to me!" John closed his eyes and sighed deeply, not looking at Harry for this part, "I can help, so please let me."

Through John's outburst Harry actually listened, which was something she was not particularly good at, but she did this time. It's not as if she ignored the many lectures she received in her life, but she felt so guilty when John used a tone that made her stomach turn. She wanted to stop, but the call of alcohol was too strong for her, whispering to her in the nights and screaming at her during the day. She couldn't resist the temptation of having the liquid burn her throat, but she was going to try. She nodded silently, then realised he wasn't looking and said instead, "Yes."

John, surprised, laughed softly to himself and held her hand. She had never said that so sincerely and with such determination that he smiled brightly. Looking into her eyes he said, "I can't believe just one word has made me really happy."

Harry thought it a little ironic that her younger brother was looking after her, but she was glad of the help. But she couldn't help the nagging question that murmured behind her mind.

"How will I pay for it?" She muttered quickly trying to skip over her poverty. Harry had spent most of her wages on her alcohol, the job that she had no idea how she kept, so only little money was left; the money she was going to use on her rent. John stopped in his tracks of thinking ahead to see the genuine smile grace his sister's face again once he had said the next sentence.

"I'll pay for it." He suggested confidently, "I should have enough to support it. But you have to take it seriously. And if you feel the need to pay me back, you can after your treatment."

"Really? But have you got enough, are you sure you have enough?" John was pretty sure Harry had no idea of his own ridiculous addiction, so he tried to keep the surety in his voice when he began to think about the repercussions of this, but it would definitely be worth it.

"For you, everything."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"If I am more than the name I carry, than surely you are more than the appearance you own. Don't let others terror force you into hiding. I want to meet you, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty's speech made Sherlock's mother gasp as she watched on the little screen showing the 'meeting' room from where she was in the living room. Mrs. Hudson didn't share the joy, she didn't know why, but she felt a weird sensation and almost a sixth sense that Moriarty wasn't right for Sherlock.

Moriarty had an Irish tilt in his voice that made his voice purr, along with a set of pearly white teeth. He wore a fitted black suit, which Moriarty had proclaimed smugly was Westwood, and very small black shoes. He came from a family of wealth, and had been brought here from the Agency; it was where all prior suitors had come.

"Curse or no curse, I want to see you. So, Sherlock, let me in."

Olivia began to smile, while Mrs. Hudson glanced at her sitting on the sofa beside her.

Before they could think anymore, Sherlock's deep monotone voice began to talk.

"You would not be saying this if you saw me. You would agree with the others and run away. They always run."

"Can I decide that for myself?" Moriarty replied within a beat, it was almost a reflex.

Sherlock heaved a sigh as his mother held her breath.

Getting up slowly, he walked towards the door that Moriarty would presumably assume was a bookshelf, and prepared himself for the sinking feeling of being a thing of nightmare for everyone.

He pulled on the door handle and walked in.

Moriarty was smiling before he set eyes upon Sherlock and his face turned to pure confusion and utter panic.

"Well?" Sherlock asked taking a step closer and spreading his arms out beside him.

Jim backed away a step, holding his hands out in front of him, to protect him from the beast. Before Sherlock could do anything, Jim ran out of the room, leaving cold air in replacement. Sherlock dropped his eyes, hating himself for even having little hope that Jim could have been something, although he was a bit weird to say the least. The echoes of Jim's voice shouting 'Pig' didn't help his already broken self-esteem.

He heard his mother's shout before he saw her. Sherlock started to walk towards the living room. She was obviously trying to get to him to stop whatever he was doing wrong. He was used to this by now. Very used to it.

"Sherlock! What was that?" the footsteps of his mother were as loud as her words, but he kept walking; a little faster now, a little longer now.

"I introduced myself properly." He shouted behind his shoulder. He couldn't cope with this any longer; he couldn't go through more rejection. He hated every moment he spent in the viewing room, it being on the second floor and his bedroom being the third; it was a little tiresome to be that far away.

"You don't show them everything; you gradually give them glimpses and then show them the rest." Sherlock had made it to the living room now, his mother way behind him.

"I was showing him my face! What could be 'the rest!'?" Sherlock turned round, at which Olivia's eyes fell onto the floor. To Sherlock, that was the worst part of his life; the fact that his mother couldn't even look at him.

Mrs. Hudson stood up, seeing Sherlock's broken expression and embraced him gently, to which Sherlock wrapped his arms around her in response.

Olivia, sensing the awkward tension hanging in the room, started to speak again, "Sherlock, we can get more suitors, more of your kind, we will find the one to change you."

Both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock looked at her as if she was crazy and a complete lunatic. She was looking back with, what she hoped was a comforting smile, but it looked completely different. It was as if she were trying to hypnotise the two of them to do her bidding.

Sherlock stalked away, heading up the stairs to his large bedroom, away to privacy and seclusion. Behind him he heard Mrs. Hudson almost shout at his mother. He smirked to himself lightly; he really liked having Mrs. Hudson on his side.

His mother had become more obsessed in wanting to find a husband for Sherlock since Thomas had passed away 9 months ago. Sherlock took it hard, losing his mentor as well as his father, as well as a friend. Olivia hated living without her Thomas, without seeing his comforting smile in the mornings and the failed pairings she forced upon Sherlock. She hated how she used to say it was Thomas' fault that Sherlock was how he was, and soon enough Thomas blamed himself.

Sherlock also resented Olivia giving him strict instructions to not attend the funeral. He was not allowed to say goodbye to his own father.

Mycroft wasn't to attend either, and so he spent the day with Sherlock trying to comfort him when it felt like a tsunami of feelings that flooded over him. He didn't want to say it but he thought he preferred his father to his mother, and Mycroft was more of a parent than the mother he now had left. He always had a special connection to his father, one that was shattered and broken.

Sherlock entered his bedroom with a slam of the door from the heel of his foot. Hands circled his head, gripping onto the curls as if they were his only vice. One that he could actually rely on compared to everything else in his dull life.

There was a slight knock on the door, a light scraping of knuckles on the wood.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice sounded on the other side of the door. Sherlock sighed, knowing either Mycroft was going to come in, or he was going to stay out there and keep up the insistent knocking. Mycroft could be especially stubborn sometimes, and this was an example of that personality. As expected another knock came, somewhat louder than before. "Sherlock."

Grumbling to himself as he walked toward the door, he opened it quickly and looked at Mycroft with distaste.

"Yes, brother?" Sherlock walked further back into his room, leaving the door open for Mycroft to walk in at his own pace. Sherlock kept his back to his brother all the while, sometimes Mycroft agreed with his mother and other times disagreed completely with her methods.

He had no idea what Mycroft was thinking, which always infuriated him deeply. He could read anyone and everyone he had met (which were few – mostly suitors and secretly his mother), but his older brother was able to keep a solid mask upon his face easily. It was especially aggravating.

"I came to apologise for Mummy." On his side then, which in the mood Sherlock was currently in, was probably for the best. Sherlock was not in the mood for anything but the shock of Mycroft even saying the word 'sorry' was surprising enough. He turned his body round to face Mycroft.

"You, of all people, want to apologise. You." Sherlock said incredulously.

"I know it sounds unfeasible to you, but I do actually care for your well being." Mycroft leaned on the desk beside the bed with a casual air, his arms folded securely round his chest.

Sherlock, defeated, fell on his bedstead. "She doesn't get it, what it's like to be seen and then rejected. Always seeing fear and terror before they even look at me behind this nose- no this snout!"

"Sherlock-"

"If you were not family, would you have given me a second glance? And not one of fear but one of compassion?" Sherlock asked with a hint of desperation. Keeping eye contact he stared at Mycroft in challenge, to which Mycroft did not back down. He unwound his arms and leant them on the edge of the desk before he began to talk.

"You were far too young to remember, but I was the first one to actually hold you. When I saw your eyes and you smiling mouth, and when you curled your whole hand round my finger," Mycroft looked like he was reminiscing to himself rather than talking to Sherlock, "I knew you'd be trouble and cause a lot of grief, but that I would always be there to help you if I could."

Sherlock was completely dumbfounded, his brother had never acted this way to anything and always insisted that keeping a distance was better for him. Being behind glass would always protect you; no one could hurt you if you put up barricades to hide yourself. That was mainly why Sherlock stayed behind it when talking to suitors, that and not to show his face. The barrier felt familiar.

"That didn't answer the question. But... thanks Mycroft." Sherlock whispered. Mycroft came over and dropped on the bed, sitting close to his brother.

"You are special Sherlock, very different to others but that does not have to mean you're wrong."

"I know I'm 'special' Mycroft, but not the same special everyone else is."

Just then Mrs. Hudson came bursting in, breathing heavily. She looked round the room before she set eyes on the two brothers. Her face contorted and her eyes were filled with terror

"Dimmock couldn't catch him."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"A pig?" The policeman on the other side of the glass was about to laugh at the ridiculous mention of a pig-nosed man. Although he thought it strange that the man looked so frenzied and terrified that it did make his case a believable one. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" He offered to him. He changed his huddled back to straight as he prepared himself to listen to the man's story.

"The Holmes' estate, the ones that disappeared a while ago – look in your records they must be there somewhere. Well, they have a son that is hidden away because he is a pig – man – thing..." Jim finished eloquently.

The man just stared at him, "why were you there in the first place?"

"Apparently there's this 'curse' that will need him to be married to break it. Me being me, I was an appropriate choice for him but when I saw him in front of me... it was a horrible sight."Jim's stomach started to churn uncomfortably and his head dizzy from the disgusting image twisting in his mind. Jim's inner turmoil went unnoticed, gratefully, and the man continued, but not to him.

"Lock him up for the night. Too much whiskey!" he shouted to two policemen that were huddled in the corner.

Jim fought against the tough arms and strong muscles screaming; "I'm right, you'll see. That man, that monster, will come out of hiding and you'll see him and that snout of his! You'll apologise for this!"

The policeman behind the glass sniggered at the false promises.

Jim was escorted roughly to the green coloured cell.

"You cannot be serious. I'm telling the truth! Why does no one notice things that are so simple?"

The cell door snapped shut, and the lock drawn across quickly.

Jim looked round the room, feeling angry. To be locked up for a night just because they thought he was in an alcohol stupor. It was stupid; normal people are stupid. So idiotic!

Of course Jim Moriarty thought higher of himself then the common people that only saw things face value, and not even then. He was a smart, observant man who was, in his own words, 'too good for this unchanging world.' It was a wonder his head could fit through door frames.

He laid on the blue 'bed' that was supplied. It was a padded piece of material that was not comfortable at all. _No wonder prisoners are so cranky, they can't get enough sleep on these things_, Jim thought solemnly.

He tossed and turned during the night, hating the almost silence that enveloped around him. There was a clock somewhere that ticked restlessly, telling Jim every second that passed by ever so slowly. Sleep did not come by easily.

But eventually the sun rose on a new day and Jim watched it through the tiny window that let just enough light in to be human right. He was released with nothing more than a glance.

"Idiots." He muttered as he exited the building with his anger raised. "That's the last time I ask the police for anything." His talking to himself was passed unnoticed as he grumbled along the streets of waking London.

"I'll go to the press. They'll believe anything someone throws at them. Like a dog to a bone. They'll have to believe me."

The man he was talking to was listening to him and writing everything down. He seemed to be smiling, and as Moriarty would find out later, evilly scheming his plan. But all that Jim was interested in was one person to try and believe him, he felt like he was going out of his mind.

Turns out, they didn't believe him

And he was being thrown out, _again_, for wasting time, _again_.

Wasn't going well for him.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0 o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Moriarty's face was pale as he read the title on the first page of the newspaper in his hands.

_Deranged, rich man sees Mr Piggy_.

It then went on to describe him and his family's wealth and influence over Britain. Before long it mentioned his 'antics' in public and was blaming his father's power over him.

If he didn't know before that it was him, then the big picture showing him standing before his father was enough to go by. He was going to tear that man to pieces when he got hold of him.

Albeit, it wasn't the most original title and it didn't have any finesse about it either, so Jim wasn't so disheartened. And all those people that looked on him as he ran down those blasted streets could just mind their own damned business. Jim knew that he could look at theirs easily.

He didn't mind too much, he never lost much confidence, so he didn't put much thought in it for the rest of the day. Until he went to work... the same morning.

"You stupid fool!" His father pushed him into a cosy room and pushed up against a wall so fast that the door was swinging off its hinges and leaving the whole building to hear. He had his hands wrapped round his son's neck as he spoke. "How could you do this to the company? We'll go down because of this. And don't you dare think it'll just be you, no! I'll get blamed for your stupidity! And what of your title? No one would dare go near you now they think you are absolutely crazy! You have to fix this, Jim, you have to!"

"Shut up!" Jim croaked back. He managed to loosen the grip on his neck a little before his father thrust him back, banging his head.

"Respect your father; I brought you up and you shall show me some respect."

"Good luck with that one."

"James Moriarty!" His father practically screamed at him, before he calmed down. "You have to either; shut up and hide far away from here, or think of a way to resolve this mess!"

"I believe I may be able to help with that." A man was standing outside the room with a smug smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

The father turned, while Jim breathed in sharply, relieved to get air back into his lungs.

Anderson came in through the door.

Moriarty looked confused at first before walking toward him. "Who are you?"

"The only person who believes you." Anderson replied mysteriously, glancing at the father with distaste. "Come with me." he added, already walking out of the tension filled room whether or not Jim was following. Of course Jim was following with slight reluctance and a steady stance in between themselves, not saying goodbye to his father. They were heading toward the car park.

Anderson had black hair that was slick back with gel and seemed to bulge up at the back of his neck. He had brown eyes that didn't have a spark or anything in them, and they looked hollower than anything else Jim had ever seen before. His walking pace and gait were a little different than to any others Moriarty had seen as he seemed to favour his right leg more.

"So you believe what I say? You believe that there is a man with the face of a pig?"

"As soon as I read it." He assured Jim. "And I don't just believe you. My partner once got close to the little thing before the mother threw her out and called our work about it. I haven't seen her since, but I need to tell the story, almost to avenge my friend's pride and my own." Anderson walked up to a black van opening the side of it and pointing to it at Jim.

"A black van, very subtle." Jim mocked, although entering the vehicle.

Inside buttons and flashing lights littered the walls. There were three chairs – driver, passenger and a spare seat. There were sticky labels showing what screens were what, it seemed a little 'Big Bother'. Jim looked around himself and though it a machined sky, lights like stars and screens like planets. He shook his head as the man began to talk.

"My name's Anderson, just Anderson. I am journalist and I need your help to get this story out." Being blunt was probably the best option in this case. Dragging out what was the target and what was the stake would take too much time, Anderson had lost so much time over this story, so was going straight to the point. "I managed to see his mother once, but she stabbed my leg with a butcher's knife. Ever since it hasn't been the same, and that has plagued me ever since."

There was a silence before Jim replied.

"Jim Moriarty. I would like to help you, only because I can prove to everyone who saw me running down the street screaming 'pig' that I was right. But on one condition, I am never, ever stepping one foot into that house again. That face will just..." he shook visibly, the image of Sherlock's face fading with something ten times worse than that of the original. "He had fangs." Jim whispered out loud without himself fully knowing.

Anderson looked at him oddly then continued, "Well how are we to gain proof without getting in. That is the key. How did you get in?"

Jim sat down one of the vans three seats, "I am partly blue blooded. Apparently to break this 'curse' you need to be the same kind. That's all I got out of the conversation."

"How did they contact you?"

Jim reached back through addled bits of memory, "There was an agency. We can find one and pay him to get evidence-"

"Already ahead of you." Anderson interrupted, and sat down heavily in the driver's seat before starting the engine.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o 0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The smell of alcohol, smoke and gambling mixed in the air, as John put his chips in the middle of the table. Jack looked at it and raised the stakes, smiling at John in challenge.

John, thinking he could actually win this round, that maybe this could be the jackpot, put down his cards in triumph, with a little smile on his face. It was there until Jack, yet again, beat John's hand; he circled his arms around the prize in the middle and put them by him. When John looked down he saw he had nothing left.

Sighing heavily, he got up unsteadily, fetched his walking stick from where it was previously perched on the table to his side and started to make his way outside. Until he was stopped by a man.

"Mike Stamford. Pleasure to meet you." The man held his hand out for a shake, but John pushed it out of the way and tried to get past. But the man stepped in front of him, with a sickly, fake smile plastered on his face.

"I see the pleasure is all mine. I would like to talk to you about a proposal?"

"Sorry, you got the wrong guy." John tried again to get past but the man was persistent.

"My names Anderson and you've blown basically all the inheritance that was passed down to you. So, will £5000 persuade you to at least listen to me?" John stopped, and looked at the man eye to eye. He noticed the slight favouring of one of this man's legs, and couldn't help but feel empathy; he knew all too well what it was like to have a dodgy leg.

"What is it you're offering?" he tried. He didn't want to do this, and he knew he shouldn't but £5000 could get Harry into a better rehab place than any of the NHS ones. It would take him ages to get that money. He couldn't chance that sort of money, so he tried to be more like Mike Stamford.

"And I prefer Jack rather than Mike, Mike's too weird a name." It was a good thing he and Mike actually spent some time outside of gambling. When John was training to be a doctor at university, Mike was a really good friend. Although they lost touch after John had joined the army, they found each other in the park one day; John mentioned the shooting and everything else, while Mike introduced John to gambling. Mike had no idea of what it was going to do to John, but thought it would be a way to vent out troubles and memories. But when they were on the table they were two strangers, both looking for adrenaline.

"Are you single?" John thought it weird, but carried on nonetheless; he thought back, Mike hadn't talked of a girlfriend or a wife, and so prayed there wasn't one.

"Yes." He answered sharply.

"I'm sorry to be blunt, but I have to ask, are you gay?" Now it was getting too personal. Mike was definitely straight, even through university he was dating nearly every girl in sight, and was a player in the campus; he was a different man back then though. But could John pretend to be gay? For his sister, he could be anything; everything or at least he could try, but still...

"That's a bit-"

"I'm sorry, but are you gay?" He repeated it with more distinction than before. John quickly lied.

"I don't see why it matters, but yes." John nodded to Anderson, as well as himself; it was confirmation that that phrase didn't sound like a lie.

"Come with me, I would like to tell you a tale that will blow your mind."


	3. Chapter 2

**Sorry, it's taken me ages to update this. Thanks for the follows and favourites! And Merry Christmas!**

Chapter 2

"You want me to go to a house, talk with a man that is different somehow – with a pig snout- and get a picture of him to give to you to put it on the news. Have I got that right?" John asked, hardly believing the position he was in. He couldn't believe what he was hearing and what he was agreeing to before he had. This situation was just plain weird, but he wanted a part in it. He didn't know why he felt that way though.

"Okay."

Anderson smiled and looked to Moriarty as they were all huddled in a van that was already cramped with computer screens and sparkling lights. It felt cramped and unorganised but for this brief meeting it would do.

"You forgot the fangs and his voice was like a wild boars shout. He was monstrous. He was ugly to say the least. And yet no one will believe me. You have to get proof! My pride and my respectable life hang in the balance." Moriarty was talking to John, his head tilt to the left as he thought back to his father's threats and the looks he got at the police station. Normal people are so judgemental.

"I've seen worse, I was in Afghanistan. I have seen too much, heard too much, and I finally think I need to have a normal life... but." What could he say, he was doing this for Harriet but, to deceive a man out of hiding for a cheap picture; he felt unbelievably cruel. "But isn't this really wrong?"

Anderson cut in, "He's a freak. I agree it may not be humane, but neither is he human."

John stopped then, and he thought about it deeply.

"If you agree, there is a lens in the lapel of this jacket, and the rigger is in the sleeve" as he said this he held up a pin stripped jacket, "meaning, if you lift either arm, it will take a picture of what's in front of you. It's very easy."

Both Anderson and Moriarty stared at him, almost demanding him into agreeing to do this. Their stares made John cringe and he had to avert his eyes.

"So Mike, are you in?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Seven suitors lined up signing on the dotted line, given by Mr. Hudson, guaranteeing that they were not going to tell anyone of what they had seen, they had learnt a lot since Moriarty. Some looked at it with distaste wondering how ugly was the man they were about to meet. All the men were clad in suits or tuxedos showing wealth and class in one outfit.

Olivia came down the stairs to join Mrs. Hudson beside the men. She smiled but had no idea of what Sherlock was doing. He had asked to have all suitors in the same room when he walked out.

Olivia grinned as all the men handed back the forms, and showed them the way to the annexe.

As the last man disappeared from Mrs. Hudson's sight, a blond man came up behind her and tapped her on the soldier.

"Mike Stamford, the agency sent me." John stated with confidence he didn't know he possessed.

"Mike Stamford," Mrs. Hudson looked at her notes, not seeing a Stamford anywhere, but she was not one to be rude and so faked it. "Yes, I see you now, sorry for the mix up, dear. Could you sign here and I'll show you up."

John did as he was told and signed, nearly forgetting to put Mike's name instead of his own. He sighed lightly at the poor signature that he did, he mostly took Mike's name and wrote it in italics. If he was out of his depth before, it was nothing like what this was going to be, that was for sure.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and started to ascend up the stairs, with John following close behind, his leg was starting to play up slightly and his stomach was reeling around itself, twisting with guilt and remorse. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He shouldn't be doing this.

Mrs. Hudson stopped at a room and gestured for him to walk in.

John turned the handle as he limped unsteadily into the quiet area, but it went totally silent as soon as he did so. Some men were sitting down, some having conversations in the corner and some had drinks in their hands from a drink station on the left hand side of the room.

Looking down at his own attire, he felt a little self-conscious, compared to others in the room. Having just a white blouse underneath the jacket he got from Anderson. He walked on his own near the door, trying to leave spaces between him and the other men.

He tried to lift his arm to test the camera, and as he did there was a click, but then there were more in quick succession. John fell to the floor to try and stop the insistent clicking before anyone noticed him.

It was at that moment that Sherlock entered the room, saying 'hello' and watching them run as fast as they could. Yet again, Sherlock's heart sank as he watched more men run from his face, from the curse, from him. He turned back through the same door and walked to the living room, feeling deflated and more down than ever, where Mrs. Hudson and his mum were, but his mother got up the sofa and walked to him when she first let eyes on him.

"That's why you wanted to do them all at once; to scare any man away from you. Why Sherlock, why would you do that?"

"It was a way of picking out the likeliest. Because you don't understand, you will never understand, they always run. For years I have watched them all run, all the time, do you understand how that makes me feel."

"Sherlock, if just one man-"

"Why can't you accept this, no one ever stays after they see me! No matter how much I want to believe that there will be one man who won't run, I know it will never happen. No one ever..." it was then that Sherlock looked at the screen. There was a man wondering about in the room, looking around, it seemed he was a little bored at being stuck in a room without anyone else being there. John was confused and wondered why no one else _was_ there; he began to question if whether he was meant to go too.

His mother gasped as Mrs. Hudson got up to look also. "Did he see?" She asked barely getting a view.

"He must have he was in the room." Both of them rounded on Sherlock, both screaming "go".

"No, I don't wan-"

"Go!" it was louder this time, and cutting him off, he sighed begrudgingly. Sherlock marched to the annexe and looked out on past the mirror to the other side of the room, protected by the glass, angrily looking through it. He gazed at this man, pondering on why he had stayed.

John was walking around at the time, looking at the books that surrounded him. He looked at the spines, glancing at the titles, when he spotted one he found quite interesting, he pulled it out. When he had noticed the sofa, he sat down and stretched his leg out in front of him. He skipped through the pages, and when he got to the end, he noticed writing.

In looped handwriting, full of grace and elegance, were the words '_Sherlock Holmes'_ _favourite book_.'

John smiled slightly, it looked like a ten year old's sentence but with the poise of an adults. It looked innocent and nothing at all of what Moriarty was talking about. Maybe Moriarty was wrong about this Sherlock?

"Are you a fan of him?" John almost dropped the book in pure shock at the voice that came from nowhere, but he stood up nonetheless like was used to in the army. But his voice, it was like melted chocolate, rich and yet almost sinful, in a weird and poetic way.

"What the hell was that for? You scared the crap out of me." John said, looking around the room, and then finally setting on the huge mirror in front of him. "Ah, so that's where you're hiding. Tiny bit cliché though, don't you think?"

"I'm not hiding." Sherlock retaliated, sounding like the boy who had written that sentence in that book. John could almost imagine a little boy sulking in the corner with a pout upon his lips. He snorted quietly to himself.

"Right, right, 'course not." John said with a smug smile, holding the book behind his back with his hands, rocking back on his feet, feeling self-satisfied about himself. This was getting rather fun, talking to the elusive Sherlock Holmes, and he nearly forgot about his task. Well, that's what he told himself, inside he actually wanted to meet the hidden man behind the glass, he wanted to meet Sherlock.

"I asked if you were a fan."

"Well, um... yeah. It's a good book, very good."

"That is rather odd; I thought that it was the last in existence."

_Crap! Think, Watson, think!_ "Well, I tried the library and they didn't... okay, I saw it was a first edition and I thought... I thought it would be worth something."

"So you were stealing it?"

"I wasn't stealing, I was just... yeah, okay, I was stealing."

"So you're a fan of wealth?"

"I am, but it is not a fan of me." Sherlock saw the sad look on the man's face and felt something in his stomach tell him to change the conversation.

"Did you see?" Out of the blue and in no relation to their subject, Sherlock asked hesitantly. It managed to pull John from his mind to the room he was in.

"See what?" John was confused and slightly annoyed that he may have missed something.

"The thing earlier?" Sherlock didn't want to mention his nose so didn't, and tried to cover his words.

"What thing?"

"You didn't see?"

John scoffed as he said the next line "I didn't?"

"...Why are you still here?"

"I'm sorry, should I go. All the others have but I thought I should stay." He did wonder why one minute they were there and then the next – poof. "Do you want me to go?"

"No." Sherlock was surprised at how quickly that had come from his mouth, but he cleared his throat to try and carry on and try to ignore it "Stay." This man was smiling though. But Sherlock held in his smile, he hadn't smiled in ages and wasn't about to break that habit for this man. So he decided to, yet again, change the subject.

"What's your name?"

"J-Mike." John internally kicked himself for nearly giving himself away like that.

"Jmike, interesting name. Never heard that before."

John tried to cover up his tracks with quick thinking, "I'm called Mike Stamford but I prefer Jack, which is my middle name."

"But you pronounced the J as if you were going to say it with an O, not an A."

John tried to hide his shock of nearly being found out with something else he felt.

"You got that from one syllable?"

Sherlock was confused; to many his ears were a little too good. Sherlock could pick up a conversation taking place two stories down and still be getting the main parts of it. His senses were very good, especially his nose, which wasn't at all surprising.

"Yes." He replied sceptically when he realised he had been silent for a while.

"What else can you do?" John was genuinely interested and wanted to learn more of his secretive target.

"I can read people." Sherlock replied timidly. His mother had always scolded him for using his powers of deduction ever since his father died, and so had recently got used to not doing it in front of or around her.

"Read people, how? Can you do me?" John asked with a hint of mischief from his wording and actual curiosity.

"Yes, once you answer my question. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock smirked, this was going to be fun, he could tell this by Jack's face when it lit up with something akin to surprise.

"Afghanistan." John said, not knowing what was going to happen next.

"You're a soldier, recently been invalid back home with honours after getting shot in the left shoulder, you therapist thinks you have a psychosomatic limp, which is correctly presumed I'm afraid, possibly from trauma of the accident that got you shot and... wait. You weren't just a soldier, you were a doctor. You were saving lives amongst a deathbed of others, hard considering you probably had to choose who to save, but this shows you have strong moral principles from having to make that choice. There is more I could reveal but I think that should suffice if your face has anything to go by."

Sherlock had started to smile now; it was only from Jack's face. Seeing him stand there, the book had fallen on the floor, his eyes were scanning the mirror, possibly trying to find Sherlock beneath the reflective surface, and his mouth was agape. He looked positively startled. Sherlock sat on his chair silently, holding in a chuckle.

"Wow." He muttered the words softly due to his surprise. To have had his army life described to him so bluntly and to have had them spread out on the table as such was strange to say the least. But he was just so glad that Sherlock seemed to have been oblivious to his gambling problem, or at least he hoped he couldn't see.

"How did you know all of that?"

Sherlock wasn't going to be modest with his quick thinking so he spoke with more confidence than he ever though he had.

"Well you held the book in your left, showing you favour that hand, but there was a twinge up your arm and you winced slightly, meaning you have hurt your shoulder and it is still quite recent if it hurts still. You also seem to lean on your left leg more because, as I initially thought, you had damaged that leg, but you gave nothing else a way to show pain, and you have literally forgotten your cane, meaning the causes of your injury to your shoulder was traumatic, creating a psychosomatic limp.

"A man injured with those symptoms formulate that you gained them in a battlefield, but, not just that. Of all the books here you choose the one that had medicine in the title. So you are obviously interested in human anatomy and cures, so army doctor it is. And the last was just a shot in the dark. From what I can estimate, it must have been hard over there, and so the choice would have been hard. And as I said that, your brows crossed; you still feel responsible for the deaths of the comrades you couldn't save."

He was dumbstruck again. He tried to speak but his mouth wasn't formulating any words and was just imitating a fish. Open and close, open and close.

One word did manage to escape though. "Brilliant."

Sherlock was surprised, totally. To have such praise on his deductive skills was unheard of in his whole life apart from his father but now more than ever, it was discouraged intently by his mother. So when he asked Jack, it was completely genuine.

"Really?"

"Yes! Remarkable, fantastic, just bloody amazing!" John said, coming closer to mirror to peer inside of it with no avail.

Sherlock could see Jack's face. His eyes were sparkling, a light blue that reminded him of the sky, but with an outer ring of deeper shade, almost shielding the inner blue. His hair had shades of different colours ranging between blond and gray, making his hair a perfect piece of art. Jack also had a perfectly clear face, making him complete. It was only his stance that showed his previous history, none reflected on his face at all.

He didn't know why, but his heart fluttered a bit when Jack smiled.

"Hello, you still there?" John knocked slightly on the window.

After a pause he asked again, "Sherlock?"

The way he said it made Sherlock feel different. It wasn't the same as Mycroft or his mother's call, but Sherlock just felt funny when Jack had said it.

John turned around away from the mirror and picked the book off the floor. Putting it on the table, and picking up his cane, he faced the mirror again.

"Well, I'll just go then?" No answer. John had nearly walked out before hearing Sherlock's voice again.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Sherlock heard the distinct hint of desperation in his voice. He wanted to see Jack again if he could.

"I knew it, I knew you were there." John shouted, then he realised he was meant to reply to the question being asked of him. "Yeah, I'll see, well, I'll be here tomorrow."

John walked out of the room, out of the house and walked to the van. Knocking on the back doors, he shrugged the foreign jacket from himself.

"Everyone else ran, what happened?" Moriarty asked curiously.

"I don't know, one minute they were all there then the next minute they were gone."

"Did you get a picture?" Anderson asked already picking at the jacket to see if anything was captured.

"No, but I'm coming back tomorrow."

Both Anderson and Moriarty looked shocked and bewilderment was clear on their faces. John took a privilege out of this. He had made a difference; he guessed no one else had been this long with Sherlock.

He walked away smugly, noticing he was walking normally. He thanked Sherlock silently.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was in the meeting room, sitting on the sofa, looking at the book that Jack had picked.

Mycroft was standing in the doorway, although Sherlock knew he was there, and so spoke openly to the room.

"Out of all the books in this library, of all the choices Jack had, against all odds, he chose the book I most love." Sherlock turned to Mycroft, "That must mean something."

"Do you want it to mean something?"

Sherlock sighed and twisted back round, his back to Mycroft. "I wrote that message when I was ten years of age; it gave me an insight into a man and the ways of men. I like him, Mycroft. I know I have I only just met him but, I do, I like him.

"Then I can do nothing else but wish you luck, Sherlock." Mycroft came over and placed his hand on Sherlock's right shoulder.

"I'll need it."


End file.
